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” We love our god and our guns. . ..” this a direct quote from a political ad, approved by John McCain, running on a local radio station here in the New River Valley of Virginia. A political statement meant to exhort Virginians to vote against Barack Obama, because he apparently doesn’t love their god or their guns. Love means cleaning, oiling & fondling your grandaddy’s 30 aught 6.

They love guns here all right. They love to sell them too. That’s how a mental patient, who slipped through a loophole in the VA TECH student psych screening process, bought two guns here in Virginia. Then took them to school for Show & Kill. Who is their god? Glock? or the twin deities, Smith & Wesson?

Not too far from here, about 10 miles as the Jim Crow flies, there still stands the site of slave cabins. No doubt my own house is built above the unmarked graves of somebody who caught a free cruise to the land of the free. This area rarely has a sunny start to a day.* Often, it’s more a mist, I call it gray-light. Maybe it’s the angry gun god, all smoke and bitter ash for dirty deeds. Or possibly the arsenal also, just down the road apiece. . ..

I have said previously, the President of the United States is a spokes model. He/she(?) walks point for the daily patrol-an important job, yes. But the chief exec leads the team out front. There are those no longer so deep in the shadows, who run things. Those guys have no gods. This, because they think they are them. What they do best is send out people to do things for them, destabilize a Third World country or prop up a druglord in a slag heap ending with -stan. Then they trot the Pres out to meet the press for an atta boy and a tutorial in spin doctoring.

Doing that needs lots of guns and money. No doubt Mr. Obama would prefer to use what’s left of the American economy to keep us strong at home. Roofs over our heads and a chicken in every pot and/or microwave. But that kind of thing upsets the ‘ foreign policy ‘ of the power brokers who work behind the curtains of the Oval Office.

Hollywood has remade a classic flick, The Day the Earth Stood Still. The premise of which is, extraterrestrial is sent to Earth to terminate it. Mainly due to our warlike ways. Naturally this is greeted with loads of firepower, which makes the alien think it’s actually on Mars, named after the god of war. Right after the shameful name of the NFL franchise in our nation’s capitol is changed, I’m petitioning the new administration to switch from Earth to Mars. Or at least the Dirty 3rth. Hey, yo I’m street, dogg!

When a political party’s endgame endorsement has god & guns as the slam dunk argument for its candidate, you know it’s in trouble. If McCain really heard that ad and approved it, it’s troublesome. If a lackey rubber stamped it for him, it’s even more so. I knew we were backwards here, but this is straight out of the Johnny Reb Handbook. The South will rise again? well not before my dinner does.

So, while I continue to live in Bubbadoon,* where it’s always 1808 with football & cell phones—their god approves of some new fangled things! I get out my pork rinds & moonshine, ready to watch the election returns. Who will win—Hatfield or McCoy? er, um I mean Obama or McCain. Actually, I thought Obama was an Irish name- what? you never heard of the Black Irish!

Last night MLB exposed itself yet again. All the honchos sat there for 6 innings in severely inclement weather at what was possibly the finale of the 2008 World Series. Temperatures dipped into the 30s F. Rain poured & the chill wind blew pop ups away from last season’s MVP Jimmy Rollins. It’s all in the game. What horse shit. The game itself was finally suspended, and weather permitting will pick up where it left off tied 2-2( a rule change in 2007 has remarkably taken the lords of MLB off the hook for a World Series ending in a game called by rain!) Though the forecast for Philadelphia ( Tuesday Oct. 28 ) is for cold rain.

So much of sports is based on being macho. A kick in the head-shake it off. A kick in the balls? big fun on Sports Center, as jocksniffers laugh & wince then sell some more beer. All they care about is money. And ratings.

They call guys like me whiners—clubhouse lawyers. The less sensitive (ha ha) just say it—fag. Play hard, play hurt or somebody else will. We are all expendable in life, especially in sports. If a player has a career ending injury as a result of performing under these conditions? They’ll say some phoney words of regret and replace him. Never really connecting it to their own bureaucratic cupidity. Words like battle & warrior are typically flung around whenever the jockocracy spews their pap. But what of the fan? the one who funds these contests of the human need to compete and conquer in bouts of pseudo-war. How many went home incubating a potentially serious illness?

Revenue would be lost if Major League Baseball were to shorten the regular season. There are possible solutions but they all end the same way with the suits & unis looking at less dollars. One thing these guys have down is being shortsighted & inflexible. Though they routinely raise ticket prices, food, souvenirs & parking, doing it all at once would be noticeable. For example: We are changing the schedule to 154 games (down from 162) in hopes of starting the playoff/WS season a week sooner—so, we are increasing costs by 2% across the board. The current state of the economy now makes this business suicide. Want to bet they increase some cost for 2009 regardless? not me, I couldn’t stand to lose at this point.

I am not so insular as to not remember when I wanted to play ball, rain or shine. I get the players side. But the higher ups need to prove they belong in an office. They don’t need to pretend they are men. They are not. They are fatcat white men, used car salesmen who never got picked to play in a real sport, with access to bank accounts that pay the freight. Maybe they should buy a clue and some compassion for the humane side of life’s ledger, not just the accounts receivable to the left of the decimal point. Playing ball needs to include playing fair with people, not just to get their last rusty nickel.

I’ve finally figured it out. Lucky you, now you won’t have to do it, you get it here, virtually free of charge.

The godz, the hired powers or the big gas cloud, rules existence in its own cruel to be kind way. Mostly it makes stuff to break stuff then makes more stuff to break it, ad infinitum. Which seems to place the age of this particular universe in the Terrible Two’s; not even the dumbest Christian thinks life is that young! All of that is usually depressing and/or befuddling for any survivors, until it’s their inevitable, tough shit turn in the barrel.

Oh sure, there are some neat misdirection tricks, geeks get hot chicks & underdogs win World Series. Favorite sons get erected U.S. President ( not a typo.) That kind of thing. We all tune in for the show, because it’s so random, there really is a chance we might be a winner. Odds roughly being googolplex to one. Sadly, there be dragons. The ever present dark side they never teach you in school. Unless of course you’re a cognitive genius and have an epiphany waiting in the cafeteria lunch line ( c’est moi naturelement.) Yes, we are the Mystery Meat. Which was the original title of that We Are the World song. It was changed for our protection.

OK, the answer is coming, eventually. Be patient, remember, it’s free. Lately I have noticed more and more, how what passes for creative, is just crap. At least 25% of the males starring in mainstream media look like the bastard sons of the Pillsbury Doughboy. AND fully 60% of dudes in rock bands, the spawn of the Michelin Man. Back when I was a boy (creak)those whey-faced lardos, were nerds and football players. Oh and please, somebody slap a cease and desist order on those endless SF/Fantasy book series. My time travel hitlist will now have to include Tolkien for baby daddy-ing that phenomenon. I’m all for EOE but it’s gone too far. So far in fact, its let the fat cat out of the bag.

Before I say any thing else, let’s all agree on something. There are always exceptions. For every Seth Rogen there always will be a Zac Efron ( is it me or did somebody at Disney edit out a K, P & H?). For every Sarah Palin there will be a Michael Palin. For every Oprah there will a photo of Oprah( they should change the spelling of ego to egO and yeah, put a pic of her as the definition.) Nothing will change that. Well, nothing short of a Cosmic singularity occluding us, harshing our dubious high.

The first sign of the Apocalypse as far as I’m concerned, is the exponential proliferation not of nukes in OPEC nations and/or dictators rocking wardrobes from Army Surplus stores, but that of one named recording acts. If you’ve stumbled across this blahg before, I mention those pretentious aholes every chance I get. If people known by three names are serial killers and people with the standard two are us, what does that make the uni-noms? Please reread this paragraph slowly and focus. Voila, you too can be a visionary. If only I had some product tie ins to sell you.

So what if Wall Street is headed for Wall-E, wearing their throwback jerseys from the October 1929 season. No fear. The stock market was established back when it actually was a stock market, cows & pigs—bulls & bears are metaphors. It’s all based on speculations and futures. We all have just one future. Fuck Dow Jones and the SUV he rode in on. The only sure thing in life is debt and Texas. Then you eat out of a dumpster until you actually do die, do die.**

That said ( whatever that was–I am trying to be entertaining and enigmatic ), I have had a revelation. The reason things start to seem so awful in the arts as we age is for one reason only. It’s so, that with our last thought, we don’t gasp a final hacking deathbed breath of regret, in which we utter the immortal words:

” Now I’ll never get to see HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL 86 arrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhh. . ..”

Presidential TV debates are not really debates. They are more like those Apple v. Windows commercials. Only without the dude from the late great ED show. It’s speechifying, packaged oratorial ping pong, with enough spin to make Sandy Koufax green with envy.

So, imagine my opinion of Vice Presidential debates. They are showcases for the stand-ins. The shadow pols. Them who would be veep. They are bullshit. Certainly not cool enough to preempt 30 ROCK. Even if Sarah Palin & Tina Fey are total sisters in MILFness.

OK here’s what I want them to talk about. Joe Biden can explain his plagiarized speech from whenever that was, a decade ago. AND Palin can tell us all about why teen pregnancy in Alaska is God’s will. Riveting. In much the same way, actual riveting would be, with admittedly not the same decibels, but likely more grating.

The one thing I am excited about is, there is finally an American candidate for an executive office who won’t be togged out in a stupid suit & tie. Or will she? I don’t know. Wouldn’t put it past some ahole to tell her she’d look more Presidential. Wanna bet somebody floated the idea?

I nominally worked for a few campaigns in my misguided youth. NO happy endings there. Unless you count The Oval Office escapade with the blue dress. The one thing I took from my Presidential campaign trail experiences was I learned how to use a coffeemaker. A skill, I continue to employ, so it was worth something after all!

I can’t personally run for office. Well, I can run. But my dodgy ( lol ) past would be exposed immediately and that would be that for the once & future king. I might have a shot at Pope. If a former Hitlerjugend can make it, the field is wide open. Odd how they send up smoke to announce a new Pope. Hmmmm wonder if he had a flashback.

Anyone with the urge to get elected is suspect from my POV. It’s rife with deals within deals. Maybe I could get longer than a week on the stump, considering how they seem to miss vital details. Intriguing how the home team often misses them, leaving the loyal opposition to amazingly find out Mayoral hopeful John Doughboy, was once in a cult that dressed as nuns and ate human flesh. It was only that one time at Cannibal Camp, but once in this case. . ..

Anyone compos mentis over the age of seven, who thinks the President is more than a spokesmodel, needs to read a book. Doesn’t matter which book, just try one. Then take a look between the lines. See it? no? go on, keep looking. You will.

In related news. . . Yankee Stadium will be razed soon and next season there will be a new ballpark in the South Bronx, my old hometown. My biggest memory of the place is going there for the first time and as we walked across River Avenue, my dad said- ‘see that big building over there? that’s the Bronx Borough Court House. I got in trouble as a kid and had to go there once. Don’t let that happen to you.’

I’m pleased to say, I’ve yet to set foot in there. Though, you never know. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to see who will be President, Apple or Windows. Either way, I’ll still have this @#%&*! dial up and phone lines installed by the CSA. Now there was a president, Jefferson Davis. I’d give anything to know what he’d say about the 2008 Election. I’d bump 30 Rock for that, and I ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie y’all!